


Shen Ven

by Monaro



Series: Sudrian History [1]
Category: The Railway Series - W. Awdry, Thomas the Tank Engine - All Media Types
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25951054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monaro/pseuds/Monaro
Summary: On ancient Sodor, a Viking scout relays an important message and meets an interesting people.One of two commissions for @RingoStarrlight on Twitter! Finished a few months back, and finally posted. Enjoy!
Series: Sudrian History [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1883500
Comments: 1





	Shen Ven

Jynx Winters

_ Shen Ven _

He walked along the edge of the valleys, for he knew that he didn’t walk alone. He knew where he had to go. He knew what he had to do. He packed a small blade and set off for the mountains. 

The great Jarl had landed his men on this little rock-  _ like a rock _ , he had said,  _ that forms in the guts of men _ \- and clashed with the stubborn three times… upon the third, they fled. Their King had fled the island- he was Godred The Great no more.

The Northerners were strong and hardy, he was told- although he was lithe and nearly hairless- and they took to life on the island well. Its soil was fertile, its weather fair. Winter was bad, but such a thing was a rule back then. No, the problem was not with the island’s climate- it was the people.

The Celts were a fierce and determined opponent. Even when their armies had fled, raiders still burned villages on the outer rim of the Jarl’s influence. Such raids were met with harsh reprisals- the rape and pillage of the few of their settlements left standing, but this made them angrier. The Jarl was a firm man- he never faltered. And so, the war parties had smashed them against the mountains again and again until they trickled away like water.

They wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He had called for him- called for him personally. Fleetfooted and clever, he stood in the chief’s longhouse under the blaze of torches, the Jarl perched in his thrown above him.

“Your father talks much of you,” he said, “You have keen eyes and quick feet.”

The peon knelt. “What is your bidding,  _ freyr?” _

“The heathens have fled to a mountain stronghold deep in the island’s core. You will deliver my message to them: _War is over, if you’d like it._ _Send to me your leaders, your diplomats._ If they do not see sense, map the land for a coming invasion.”

He nodded.

“Arise; you depart now.”

-

For the first three days, it rained. It rained constantly. Sometimes, it was just a mist, and others it poured so hard as to put welts on his back. It chilled him to the bone- with spring coming soon- but not soon enough.

He did not speak of his journey. As best he could, he avoided the towns. No man or woman could be trusted, for in the outer towns, Celts walked among them- and Celts spoke to Celts. When he slept, he kept his coinage close to him- coinage given to him as some small settlement to the Celts, but far too great for any wanderer or guardsman to possess.

The Jarl had given him a horse: A sturdy old mare. He was only a fair rider, but she gave him no trouble. He thought at first, that despite the rain, the journey might be easy- in fact, he was wrong.

The roads turned to paths, the paths turned to tracks in the woods. Tracks marked by the dung of the foxes and the deer and the wildcats. The woods were barren but for great tangles of brambles which clung to the path and scratched at him and steed. He saw ripples of movement, or flashes of orange fur all too common. He made his fires, and heard the screams of the creatures who dwelled beyond the pale. He said his prayers- the true ones, the old ones, not those of the Cross- and he went to sleep. Awoken not by the tear of claws, but the stinging rain.

When he was truly beyond the Pale, he donned a white tabard- the Raven lay on it- the raven a symbol of the Jarl. He now rode openly as a servant of his people- alone, with naught but a coin purse, a saddlebags and leather clothes. He was no war party, and as the rain already run through the white linen 

On the fourth day, the rain stopped- and the sky opened to a pale blue, with the clouds flying by like huge wolves in the sky, hunting whatever prey dwelt in their domain- and the sun set its fingers upon the land and into the people, with the dew rising to vapors and the land sparkling.

And, in places, he saw the buds on the trees, and thought to spring- maybe not so far away now.

On the fifth day, he came across a moor. In the middle was a great stone. Someone’s grave, recent and free of moss. And he saw the remnants of a fire- and bones of a rabbit. And he knew he was on the right track, for ahead of him the land heaped up, and he knew that fires were lit in the hidden valleys, and that old, ragged warriors clung there waiting to split his throat. And he knew it no coincidence the Jarl had sent him- an awkward boy of thirteen- instead of a senior warrior. The horse, he wondered, may be worth more than he.

He found, with some effort, a natural pass. It was rocky and steep, and the horse grew nervous- so he dismounted. He found it slow going, winding through great terraces.. 

He happened on a village- fire still smoldering, houses seemingly unoccupied. The place had loomed from the mist and caught him by surprise- the mist so thick that he had, somehow wandered right into it. And he found more stones, round stones the size of small boulders piled together in heaps, like demented cairns. They were the buildings of people training, preparing, growing stronger.

“HALT.”

He stopped in his tracks, the horse raising its ears. He could not see who spoke. The voice was mighty and booming- but muffled through the mist. It came from seemingly everywhere, and spoke his tongue in the accent of the Celts.

Again, the voice came. “WHO ARE YOU?”

“I am… a messenger,” he called back, “A messenger, from… from the King of Norway!...” Better not to mention the Jarl- not yet. He dared not touch his sword, and raised them away from his body. “I come to offer peace…!”

There was a hush- the Celts were conferring. He could hear a whisper seeming to ripple among the village- but noone could be seen.

At last, a man came to him- an old man with wild grey hair and a beard. His clothes were damp and drab, and his body was emaciated. Pieces of meal still clung to his face.. Pieces he almost absentmindedly flicked into his mouth.

He nodded to the scout. “I will take you to Gleigh.”

“Who is Gleigh?”

“Our leader; she lives on the high peak. She has been informed of your coming.”

He tried to think who could have seen him coming- through all the fog- tried to tell himself it was impossible- and remembered the folds in the land. Obviously, the Celts knew the land better.

The path led up and up, through the mountain, past sheer drops that chilled him to the bone. He did not ride here- he left the horse tied in the village, for they told him it was too narrow. And Odin’s grace, they were right. 

“You’re walking Shane Dooiney now,” said the guide.

“What..?”

“The Old Man,” he corrected, “It is the name of this place.”

They came upon steps- stone steps, carved into the mountain- and he found them queer. They must have taken a long time.

“Where does this road go to?” he found himself asking.

He could not understand what came next. The accent was too strong- one word, a place name.

He tried to repeat it. “Skokarloey..”

The old man shook his head, and enunciated. “Skough-gar-lowey.”

He shrugged, and they continued on, winding up. The steps were slippery, the grip unsure, and his feet were cold and sore from the stones.. Small rocks dropped from above, and he saw once a great bird fly into the void of the valley.

They came to a ledge, upon which sat a little house of stone, built in the side of the mountain. Smoke from its chimney fluttered away in the roaring breeze. Here, the land was slippery, and the grass grew patchy.

A door led in.. The old man opened, and let him in.

The scout entered on complete darkness.

His sight grew better- and he could see the embers of a fire in the middle of the room. Smoke filled the air; it was shut like a tomb. No windows drew in light.

A hunched, arthritic figure stood by the fire.

“Stormcrow,” a voice creaked, “What news do you bring me?”

He tried to keep his voice steady. “Are you the one called Gleigh?”

“That is me…” He could see her more clearly now. Her hands were hooked, her nails long and ragged. Her skin was mottled with liverspots. Her entire body was covered with the woad ink of savage islanders- this is what his father and grandfather spoke of.. And this was the first time he had seen it. Her eyes were blue too, but they were glazed with the monsters that destroyed sight in old age.

“Speak.”

He wanted to shake himself, but didn’t. He wanted to run away, but didn’t. He knelt before her. “Gleigh of Sodor, I come bearing a message from the Jarl.”

She hissed at the name, but bid he go on.

“...That war is over, if you will it…” He produced his coin purse- given by the Jarl, and not really his. “I present to you silver, as a gift.”

She bid him forward until he stood on the other side; her hair was stringy and grey.. Gleigh took a handful of coins, and ran them through her feeble, trembling hands. “You know, Wiking,” she crowed, “It means nothing to me… your coin means nothing.”

“I am just the messenger,” he insisted, “I make no assumptions.”

“But you do,” she chuckled- it was the sound of gravel churning in a sack. “You look at us, and you see a backwards people.”

_ I have to call them as I see them _ , he thought, but he said nothing.

“He is willing to make peace,” he insisted, “If you join me to his camp.”

She grinned- it was a grin full of death. Her obliterated teeth were brown stumps. And then she laughed long and low.

“No.”

He was on his back- something unseen had shoved him. The woman was approaching- and in her hand was a piece of crockery, sloshing some liquid. He tried to lash out at her, but there was no movement. His hands were numb, his whole body tingled.

“You are a scout, Stormcrow,” she rasped, forcing the thing to his lips. The liquid tasted bitter, like water from treesap, “To leave the mountains is madness. No, your true goal was to find our pass- our villages, our hidden fortresses. You hoped to smoke us out, like vermin…” He tried to spit the liquid up, but she socked him hard in the lungs, and he began to choke it down.

“We are not fools.. And you will never leave this place.”

At last, he broke free- he kicked her wretched shins out from under her, he began to crawl on his stomach to the door. Sparks shot through him- each movement hurt in his joints. Things felt heavier and the sleep closed in. The rights of vision were surrounded by stirring black…

Just a little further, he urged, I can make it.. Just a little further..

He could hear her shuffling behind him. He staggered up briefly, flung the door out.. The wind caught it, threw it back against the house. Its rotten mass tore from its hinges and tumbled away.. He was nearly out, but she was gaining- the darkness was gaining- but he could make it. He was near, near something. The edge, death. Death was better. Something was taking hold, something awful. He could beat it. Death was better. Nevermind the Jarl, death was better, death was

  
  


Silence before

  
  


Waking on the hill

Woman gone

Unalive undead live

Stone he was stone all stone now stone fifty wide fifty high

They had all been stone now this was clear they shifted they shimmered they were mist and stone they were unquantifiable they were everywhere

They had been here all along they were not celts not anymore they were more they were more

He awoke on the mountain with dawn breaking. He could not move, and he could not feel a thing- no, that wasn’t right. He felt the moisture like an ache, boring into his bones.

Did he have bones anymore?

Pebbles dropped into the gulley below; below him was the pass, and beyond- the valley, with the smoke of settlements on the rise. Smoke hung closer, too, in the form of whatever Celtic place he had been through to meet the woman- a place, he thought with a smirk, lay below him, in that same gulley, the same winding canyon.

And he felt himself move- barely noticeable, perhaps just in his mind… except he wasn’t. He knew he could move as surely as he knew that he was no longer human. Whatever he was, he was slow, huge and heavy… and he could surely ruinate the Celts below with ease. It would be poetic, he thought, for those he had offered peace to, to lose everything in a freak landslide. Better that, he thought… better that, than the Viking onslaught that surely marched from the north.

Something about it was poetry- or it was symmetry. Perhaps a little of both.


End file.
